


Shame the Devil

by likeadeuce



Category: Henry IV - Shakespeare, Shakespeare Histories - Fandom, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Background Hijinks at the expense of John of Lancaster, Background Mischief by Falstaff, M/M, Supporting Character - Earl of Northumberland, Supporting Character - King Henry IV, Supporting Character - Ned Poins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil -<br/>By telling truth. Tell truth and shame the devil."</p><p>- Hotspur, 'King Henry the Fourth, Part I,' Act III, Scene 1</p><p>Whatever Hotspur's failings, he's always considered himself an honest man. What his father and King Henry ask of him presents a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shame the Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



> It's almost impossible to make a coherent timeline of these plays relative to each other, much less to actual history (if Hotspur is a peer of Hal rather than of Henry, as he was historically, when could the Battle of Otterburn have even happened?) In that light, I'm taking a cue from canon and not wracking my brain over how it all fits. So I've lifted some of Hotspur's real-life Scottish adventures, along with a bit of dialogue between Hotspur and Bolingbroke in Richard II that was cut from the 'Hollow Crown' productions, and set it some unspecified time between Henry's ascension and the events of Henry IV, Part I. Close enough for rock and roll, or the Histories.

Not for the first time – but, as always, too late – Hotspur realized he had said the wrong thing.

"What I believe my son intended to say, Your Grace," interjected the Earl of Northumberland, a point clearly intended more for said son than for His Grace, "Is that we are your loyal servants in this as in all things, and in response to Your Grace's request –"

The king raised his hand, which silenced Hotspur's father as abruptly as if Henry had been operating a puppet. Henry let the room settle into silence before weighing in with his voice, which managed to be a whisper and deeply resonant at once. "Your son, good Northumberland," said the king, "Has proven more than capable of speaking for himself. On a good many occasions." 

Hotspur nodded in the direction of his father – _See, the king listens to me_ \-- even while he was fairly sure that 1) this was not a compliment and 2) Northumberland's interpretation of what Hotspur should have said was pretty damned accurate. This was no time to retreat, though. Percies didn’t do that, even when it meant spending several months in a Scottish dungeon, waiting for the king to squeeze whatever concessions he could out of your father in exchange for getting your ransom together. Not that Hotspur was resentful. It was part of the game. He'd have the chance to take his own prisoners soon enough. 

The ransom had been paid and Hotspur had made his way home, bursting with excess energy, and proceeded to destroy all comers at the Oxford jousts, where the Prince of Wales had conspicuously failed to make an appearance. Hotspur might reasonably have expected this to settle his status as the golden child of England's younger generation, and maybe he would have gotten a chance to fucking sleep without anybody bothering him.

But, well, he had opened his mouth, an error he might still have time to remedy. "I will, of course, I do, that is – Your Grace –" Hotspur coughed. "In all things. But I want to be sure – when I said that I've spoken to Hal – ahh, to your son – to the Prince of Wales – we just happened to cross paths…I had come from the armorer, and I was on the way to my father's town house and I saw him in the street. It's not as though the prince and I –" As though we are friends. As though I know where to track him down at all times, regardless of what I tried to imply. As though the poncey bastard likes me. "It's not as though we frequent the same establishments."

"But he could," Northumberland said. "Harry? You certainly could."

"I suppose I _could_ hunt down a questing beast and bring its head to rest in Arthur's tomb, but I can't promise it won't take some time."

"Young Percy," Henry said, in his rich, rolling bass voice, with a twinkle in his eye that Hotspur did not trust in the least. "I can hardly believe that a man of your stature, your proven courage and resolve, would find the simple task of paying a social call on our son to be intimidating."

"Your Grace! I-I-I-" Hotspur was pretty sure he'd been called a coward. By his king. "I don't – I never –"

Northumberland's hand closed on Hotspur's arm. "You are happy to accept this commission," he said, between clenched teeth, and while there was absolutely _no way_ the king wouldn't realize he was parroting his father's words, Hotspur bent a knee to his monarch.

"I am happy to accept this commission." Another squeeze. "With great happiness. To serve Your Grace. In this as in all things."

Given his way, Hotspur would have bolted from the audience chamber with all of the (considerable) speed at his disposal. But Northumberland, of course, had some further topics to clear up with the king, and Hotspur stayed there shifting from one foot to the other until they were both dismissed. 

Hotspur stalked out of the chamber, leaving his father to follow him in spite of precedence, simmering until the earl touched his shoulder, and Hotspur whirled around –

"What exactly do you think --?" Northumberland began, at the same time Hotspur said, "I thought he was going to _congratulate_ me for winning the tournament, and instead he wants – whatever I do for the bloody man, it's not enough!"

"It's almost as though," his father said drily. "When you have served a king well, you continue to be his subject." Northumberland peered over his heavy brow at Hotspur. "You have done well by King Henry until now. You did not hesitate to assist me in his ascendance, or to risk your life for the realm in battle. The king only asks for a small amount of information regarding the prince and his associates. Why do you balk at --?"

"Spying on a friend?" 

"I was unaware you considered the prince a friend."

"I like him quite well," Hotspur said, which wasn't untrue, though it certainly wasn't the same as being a friend. "But even so. Is there any more honour in feigning a false friendship than in betraying a true one?"

"Ahh," Northumberland said. "Honour." He considered this long enough that Hotspur began to think his thrust had landed. Then, the earl said, "Go into the city. If you can find the prince, find the prince. Have some ale and a woman, then come back and tell the king what he wants to hear about his son."

"How do I know what he wants to hear?" 

"Can you think of nothing for yourself?" 

This drove Hotspur to a sort of inarticulate growl, and he had to cover his mouth and spin around on his heel for a few seconds, until he could find some words for his frustration. Turning back to his father, Hotspur finally sputtered, "Am I meant to think for myself? Or stand quietly and do as I'm told?"

His father remained silent, unanswering, until Hotspur gave way – why do I always give way? he wondered even as he was doing it – and said, "Very well, I'll go to the city and seek out the prince. Does this please your lordship?" 

He stared at his father, waiting for an answer, until the old man must have concluded he was waiting for something else. With a sigh, Northumberland reached into his robe, withdrew a coin purse, and offered it to Hotspur without examining the contents. "This should more than serve to fund your enterprise."

Hotspur considered whether taking his father's money would make the situation more contemptible – at the Oxford tourney, he had won various bits of armour and metal plate, several horses and quite a splendid falcon, but afterwards he'd been bloody unlucky at dice, so he could use the financial assistance – but while he was still contemplating the right or wrong of the decision, he seemed to have accepted the purse and thrust it into his belt.

"As you go out, son remember –"

Hotspur knew the general outline of this paternal lecture and was not in the mood for it. "I know, I know. Give thy thoughts no tongue nor unproportioned thought, et cetera. No borrowing or lending. Sometimes I do listen."

His father let out a weary sigh, but at least he didn't have the nerve to add the thing he always said about truth. In these circumstances, that would have been the rankest hypocrisy.

*

Hal had started to think he was the only person in the tavern who cared about Hotspur.

Or. "Care" was maybe not the exact right word. The number of people Hal felt an emotional attachment to was not extensive, and letting anybody know who they were could create a tactical disadvantage. This was solid monarchical strategy – King Richard had his favorites, and look at where they all ended up – though Hal might be taking it a bit far by applying the same obfuscation to himself. He avoided too deep an examination of who he actually liked, and who simply provided diverting company. If Hal knew who his real friends were, he might have to do something about it, and that had the potential to make things confusing, later.

So it wasn't that Hal cared about Harry Percy, and his company was more annoying than entertaining (partly, Hal had to grant, because it gave him less liberty to make jokes at the expense of his father and the rest of the court, but also the Northumbrian was bloody loud and seemed to think himself entitled to make jokes of his own.) 

But Hal was _interested_ in Hotspur. The Percy family had been important to his father's ascension to the throne, and would be just as important going forward. Rumour had it that Hotspur was set to marry Edmund Mortimer's sister, which would put the Percies devilishly close to the family that Richard had wanted to inherit his throne. And Hotspur had come straight to London from the Oxford jousts, where he might very well have been hit on the head, and if he had some kind of head injury and kept drinking ale on top of it, he might pass out in the middle of the Boar's Head and die and how was Hal going to explain that?

So, maybe he didn't care. But he was interested.

"Percy!" Hal said, slapping Hotspur across the shoulder. If he got away with that, he'd try whacking Percy's head and see if he toppled over. If Hotspur's reflexes had slowed, though, he didn't show it. When Hal touched him, Percy swung back his elbow and caught Hal in the ribs. Not hard, just enough to make it known that it _could_ be hard if he wanted it to. Hewing the limbs off of Scotsmen was the hereditary Percy vocation, and Hal forgot that at his own risk. 

So Hal lowered his hand, raised his glass, and asked, "For what sins are you roaming the halls of purgatory?"

"What?" said Hotspur, narrowing his eyes, and Hal thought about how to rephrase his question using smaller words. But Hotspur clearly understood him perfectly well, because he said, "What am I supposed to have done?" and his voice rose – both in volume and pitch – which clearly signaled that he felt guilty about something.

Now _that_ was interesting. But Hal didn't want to scare Percy off, not yet, so he leaned back on his stool, playing unconcern, and said, "Eastcheap. This bloody tavern and its highly dubious beer. You should be in the great hall right now, dining on my father's suckling pig."

Hotspur looked down at his drink, pondering what might be dubious about it. "Fathers," he said, addressing the beer and not Hal. "I've had a bit too much of mine at the moment. Surely you can relate."

"Surely," said Ned Poins, edging his way into the conversation. "Our Hal has no use for father figures of any kind. Speaking of which. Where's old Jack? I haven't seen him. He owes me money."

"I imagine," Hal said drily, "That's why you haven't seen him."

"If owing money kept Jack Falstaff away from a tavern, he'd never see the inside of one."

"Falstaff?" Hotspur said. "Is that the white-haired man who looks like –" He spread his hands away from his stomach to indicate a generous paunch.

"The old, fat pox-ridden scoundrel, yes," said Hal.

"He was here when I came in. He was going out to see about a fighting – rooster? – and he needed a few small coin in exchange for a larger one and went to look in his pocket and –" A frown crossed his face as he moved hands over the table and then down to his side. "He set his coinpurse down here and mine was – Oh _bugger_."

The look on Hotspur's face was, at that moment, the funniest thing Hal had ever seen, and he and Poins broke into alternating spasms of laughter. "I don't see what's so funny," Hotspur said frigidly.

Hal caught his breath long enough to call to the barmaid. "I'll be covering Sir Harry Percy's bill tonight. He's been –" Laughter caught up with him again. When he could control himself, he continued, "He's been Falstaffed!"

Poins patted Hotspur's shoulder reassuringly. "It's happened to the best of us."

"Oh has it now?" Percy looked over toward Hal. "I don't suppose we'll see him again tonight."

"Unlikely," Hal confirmed.

"It's just as well. If this were a debt of honour, I could issue him a formal challenge –"

"Oh, yes. Please," Poins said reverently, the gleam in his eye making it clear this would be the best thing he had _ever_ witnessed, even better than when Hal broke the pitcher over Falstaff's head. 

"—but this seems beneath my dignity."

"Beneath _your_ dignity," Hal agreed, elbowing his way in to separate Poins from Hotspur. "And futile, besides, since Falstaff _has_ no dignity. He wouldn't show up for a challenge or he would and he'd talk his way out of it –" Hal stopped because Poins was right, that _would_ be the most spectacular thing any of them had ever seen. But while Falstaff and Hotspur would probably manage to avoid killing each other, Hal felt a certain responsibility toward innocent bystanders. Or culpable ones, for that matter, including himself and Poins. Siccing Hotspur and Falstaff on each other had a certain amount of entertainment value, but – not tonight. However much Falstaff deserved it. 

Instead, Hal leaned closer to Hotspur and said, confidentially, "Why are you even worried about the money?"

"It wasn't mine, anyway," Hotspur mused, looking somewhere that wasn't quite into Hal's eyes as he spoke. 

This wasn't what Hal had been getting at, but he'd file that away for later. Pretending to misunderstand, he said, "Early payment on the dowry from the Mortimers?"

"The what from the _who_?" Hotspur looked Hal's way now, far too gobsmacked to be pretending.

"It's being said all over that you're to be betrothed to young Mortimer's sister Katharine."

"Which one is _she_?"

"My cousin Kate."

"That doesn't help! All the ladies are called Kate."

"Of course. That makes sense. All of them.

"Sometimes they're called Elizabeth," Percy conceded. He looked up at the barmaid, who had brought a fresh round of foamy drinks, and bluntly asked, "What's your name?"

"Kate," she and Hal said together. 

"See?" Hotspur demanded, with more spite than the argument seemed to deserve.

"You're both called Harry," Kate pointed out, and, with a sultry laugh, flicked a bit of foam from the side of the mug toward the men.

"Kate has a point," said Hal-sometimes-Harry. Harry Percy shook his head.

"Some of us are called Edward," said Poins and – almost as if he were bored with a conversation about politically significant marriage alliances – followed Kate back toward the tap. 

This left Hal and Percy with fresh drafts of ale, but Percy rested his chin in one hand and just stared at his drink. "I think I've had enough," he said, sounding glum."

"Well," said Hal, "You just returned from Oxford where you've basically been hurling yourself at other men, and their horses, with spears and twice your weight in armor –"

Hotspur spoke almost in monotone. "The joust is a noble undertaking. Your father was considered quite good at it." 

"And I'm considered quite good at not getting my head cracked open. The point is you've been working to get yourself killed, my friend robbed you, and now you're drunk –"

"I'm not that drunk. I just want to maybe rest here for a while." Hotspur planted his face in his folded arms. 

Hal watched for a moment to see if he started snoring – or stopped breathing. When nothing happened, he touched Hotspur's forehead and tilted his head upward. Hal's fingers slid their way into a mess of coppery curls, which he had never noticed at quite such close range before. "I can sleep here all right," Percy muttered, "I don't have anything to steal. Except my virtue, I suppose." His head fell forward again.

"There are rooms upstairs, you know."

Hotspur didn't raise his head, but spoke a muffled reply toward the table. "I don't think that would do anything for my virtue." Turning a cheek sideways to rest on his hands, he said, "Besides, I don't have any money." 

"Come on," Hal urged, helping Hotspur to his feet. "I'll cover your room. The Falstaff Special is a regular thing here. It is literally the least I can do."

*

When Hal helped Hotspur up the stairs, he didn't have any impure intentions. He might not have been entirely free of impure thoughts – starting with those coppery curls under his fingertips, then the weight of the solid body against his own as they took the stairs. Hacking limbs off Scotsmen required serious forearm strength, apparently.

Hal _was_ dragging a well-proportioned and totally snockered young man to bed in a room above a particularly notorious tavern. But that didn't mean anything in itself. The last recipient of the "Falstaff Special" had been Hal's brother John, who had staggered up the stairs mumbling the whole time that Hal was, "wonderful, really, and brilliant, no matter what everybody else says and wouldn't it the most excellent thing if the whole family could sit down together and talk about how much we really deep down love each other" – and a wealth of other embarrassing effusions that would have humiliated any sober Lancaster. Hal made sure John was tucked in comfortably, and sat guard at the door all night (excepting a brief interval of boxing Falstaff's ears to get what was left of the boy's money back). The next day, Hal had delivered a bleary-eyed John, and at least the major portion of his coin, back to their father, pointing out that there were _much_ worse things that could happen to a sixteen-year-old youth set loose in Eastcheap. Somehow, this did not earn Hal the credit it might have for being an attentive older brother, and none of the younger boys had been allowed out of the palace in his company since.

So when Hal helped Hotspur upstairs and cleared out a room for him – through a little yelling and the promise to the riffraff currently occupying it that they could put drinks on his bill if they went downstairs right now -- Hal was providing charitable good service, no less than he had done for his own brother. Well, somewhat less. Because as soon as Hotspur got settled, Hal intended to leave him to his own devices. If the man had camped out in the Northern wilds, vulnerable to cold weather and vicious Gaelic types, he could fend for himself one night at the Boar's Head.

"Wait." Hotspur grabbed Hal's narrow wrist with one of those Highlander-cleaving hands of his. "Don't leave yet."

"Are you going to be sick?" Hal asked. Moving gently, and constantly aware that Hotspur could probably snap his wrist if he felt like it, he attempted to pry Hotspur's fingers off his hand.

"No." Hotspur let go abruptly and lay back on the bed. "I just want to talk."

"You always want to talk."

"Tell me about the girl. Have you met her?"

The one Percy might be supposed to marry. Hal didn't bother to play dumb. "You've met her. She's been at court…"

"One of the Kates. You already said. Is she pretty?" 

Kate Mortimer was, in fact, a beauty out of a fairy story, with snow white skin and raven hair. "Passably," said Hal. "I'm sure the pox scars are gone by now, and I believe there's a thing the court surgeons can do for harelip..."

"Funny." Hotspur didn't pretend to be taken in by a joke that Hal hadn't tried very hard to sell. "Is she good-tempered? Clever?"

Hal wasn't sure whether 'clever' was a good quality in a woman as far as Hotspur was concerned, but for novelty's sake, he decided to tell a mostly-true story. "She's a lady of excellent family and spotless reputation. I once decided to try the lay of the land, as far as her possible affections toward myself were concerned. After five minutes' conversation, Lady Katharine declared me, and I quote, "exceptionally unimpressive, even for a Lancaster."'

Hotspur raised his head from the pillow long enough to flash a grin. "I like her already."

Hal kicked the door shut and sat on the bed. "What's the trouble then?"

"The trouble is no one ever tells me anything." Hotspur slammed his hands down into the mattress, shaking Hal from his unsteady perch, and when Hal got his bearings, it was easy just to lie down himself. Hotspur, somewhat to Hal's surprise, rolled up on his side to make room. Never breaking from his monologue, Hotspur accomplished the impressive task of talking with excited hand gestures even while propped up on one elbow. The gist of the speech was that Hotspur's father, and the king, and Hotspur's uncle, and the Scots, and the devil only knew who else expected young Harry Percy to run back and forth on whatever errands they could contrive and couldn't be bothered to inform him of a minor detail such as who had been selected as the future mother of his children and there was a particular insult added to injury by the fact that _Hal_ had been the one to inform him of this fact, and he wouldn't even have been talking to Hal except that well never mind that part, but under normal circumstances he wasn't supposed to be here and…

At last, Hal couldn't absorb anymore. "Percy!" He put a hand on the arm Hotspur was gesturing with, which actually shut him up for a moment. "Harry," Hal said more softly, trying not to be distracted by the well-muscled forearm he was touching. 

Hotspur looked down at Hal's hand, looked up at him again and said, in a sort of dreamy monotone, "Keep doing that I like it."

"Oh, do you?" Hal started to pull his hand away but then – didn't. If Hal liked Hotspur's forearm, and Hotspur liked Hal's fingers, then there wasn't anything for them to quibble about.

"Sometimes," said Hotspur, "I'm thinking a thing and it just comes out of my mouth –"

"Sometimes?" Hal gave a sharp laugh, and Hotspur looked him straight in the eye. Then, before Hal had time to figure out exactly what they were talking about, Hotspur put a hand to the back of his neck and pulled him in for a firm, hard kiss.

Hal couldn't decide whether he should have seen this coming. 

*

When Hotspur woke up, the first thing he did was to look around and make he sure he was where he thought he was. Unfamiliar ceiling, nondescript furniture -- yes. Smell of spilled beer, day-old stew, and piss – naturally. Prince of Wales lying half-conscious beside him – that did it, then. All in all, Hotspur was relieved. Fucking the heir apparent in a filthy room above a tavern was the kind of thing that sometimes happened, but if he'd been dreaming about it – that would just have been strange.

Hotspur slid out of bed, found what he was pretty sure were _his_ hose and doublet on the second or third try. This was the time to get mostly dressed, tiptoe out of the room, and trust Hal never to mention this again. Which he managed, almost. He got his clothes in some semblance of order, walked toward the door -- then turned around, sat on the edge of the bed and flicked Hal's bare shoulder with his index finger.

Hal groaned, rolled grudgingly over, and squinted at him through the room's meager daylight. "What's that look on your face? You don't have _that_ much to be smug about – not that it ever stopped you before."

"I'm leaving. I just – thank you." Hal's eyebrows went up, and Hotspur said hastily, "For covering the bill."

"It's fine, Percy. I'll catch up to Falstaff and thump it out of him. It's an old game, and – Don't worry," he said, with a smile that almost looked real. "The miasma of preposterous rumour that wafts around me ought to shield _you_ from anyone's gossip. This place knows how to keep its secrets."

"Oh, _hell_." Hotspur smashed his hands against his forehead. _That_ was the thing about last night that he'd managed not to think about until just now. "Hal, I –" He looked at the prince, who was sitting up, suddenly attentive. "What would your father want to hear about you?"

"What?"

"I told my father I would tell _your_ father what he wanted to hear about you, but I don't know how I'm supposed to know what he wants to hear so I thought I'd ask you…"

"I _understood_ that part." Hal leaned over to grab his hose from the floor and pulled them on under the blanket, then got to his feet and started putting together the rest of his ensemble. As he did he fumed. "Your father sent you down here to spy on me, on behalf of the king, and –" He gestured to the bed. "Was _this_ part of it?"

" _Yes_ , Hal. My father, the Earl of Northumberland gave me a purse full of coin and told me to get it stolen so I'd have an excuse to commit sodomy with the heir apparent." Hotspur spread his hands. "Of course not. This was just because –I—I -- I" Because I was sulky and resentful and did something stupid. Because you have nice hands and I liked the way they felt on me. Because you were paying attention to me and I didn't want it to stop. There was a reason Hotspur didn't go in for self-examination. "I went out to do whatever I felt like and I just have to go home and tell the King what I think he wants to hear. Or what you think I think he thinks – wait."

"For the record," said Hal. "You make a terrible spy."

"Tell that to my father!" Or on second thought. "Please don't," Hotspur said meekly.

Hal laughed.

"You're not taking this seriously!"

Hal's voice rose and he was, very suddenly, in Hotspur's face. "If I was taking this seriously, you bloody idiot, I'd bash your traitor head in!"

"Try!" Hotspur leaped to his feet, squared his shoulders and they glared into each other's eyes. A moment before, he'd been full of remorse, but the instinct to fight was too strong.

Then Hal broke into laughter, covered his face, and turned away. "I'm sorry Percy, but I _can't_. Go back and tell the king – tell him whatever you want."

"Tell him what? That you spend your evenings drinking bad beer while a fat man picks your pocket? You play jokes on the tapster and that idiot Poins laughs so you think you're brilliant? Is _this_ what you've sold your birthright for?"

Hal let out a sharp guffaw and repeated, contemptuously, "My birthright. Talk to Richard about what a prince's birthright is worth"

"Oh, don't be so bloody superior. Maybe you don't think you were born to be a king. But my father and I pledged our swords when we sided with Bolingbroke, to a man who could lead. To a king who was supposed to have strong sons. If that means nothing to you, maybe we backed the wrong cock in this fight."

Instead of yelling back, Hal seemed to think this over. Then he gave a small smile and said, "I'm not sure which of us has uttered more treason in this room. Just –Don't give up on me yet."

To Hotspur's surprise, Hal offered him a hand. Almost as much of a surprise, Hotspur clasped it – for an acceptable length of time, making sure not to linger too long on the touch – then stepped back and looked Hal in the eye. "Why can't you just do what's expected of you, the way everyone else does?"

"What's expected?" Hal repeated. "You mean spy on my friends?"

Hotspur laughed. "You're a beacon of friendship. Of course. I see that. Out of curiosity. What place will there be for all your low-born friends when you're king?"

This stopped Hal cold. He turned his back, paced the short length of the room and returned, but now – now ice glinted in his eyes. "If you were just a little bit smarter. A little smarter, or a little stupider, you wouldn't ask me that question."

"Hit a nerve, did I?" Hotspur decided not to waste his time untangling what Hal might have meant by the last remark. Instead, he pressed his advantage. "I haven't given up on you, and I won't, because you don't belong with these people. I know it and you know it. Does Ned Poins? Does Falstaff?"

"When exactly did the dirty spy become the truth teller here?"

"Truth will out. As my father always says. Speak truth and shame the devil." 

"I think you should leave," Hal said, and he turned his back again.

"It's just a matter of time, Hal. Whatever you're doing here, it won't last forever. One day, you'll come back, and I'll be waiting."

The prince didn't answer.

*

Hotspur didn't go back to the palace that night. The king and his father could go hang.

At least – for a little while longer.


End file.
